


Tornado proposal

by theotherdesanta



Category: Grand Theft Auto V
Genre: Fluff, M/M, My friend was gonna kick my ass if I didn't post this, they're very intense about trikey
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-30
Updated: 2016-07-30
Packaged: 2018-07-27 17:04:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,081
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7626778
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theotherdesanta/pseuds/theotherdesanta
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Long story short, my friend slash support coach threatened to whoop my ass Trevor style if I didn't post this. I can't complain since they've been one of the biggest helps to my life and I owe them alot.<br/>A few spots of this have been edited to the best of my abilities as I no longer have someone around to edit them for me but hopefully, with this mess of a word corrector things should be okay. If not...I'll just crawl under Michael's couch and stay there forever. </p>
<p>I apologize for anything missed in the correction process, also for the lack of sassy bitch Mike as I'm trying to capture another side to him, the one we see for five seconds in different cutscenes throughout the game but never really get to experience. </p>
<p>Enjoy the fic, guys. Piece!</p>
    </blockquote>





	Tornado proposal

**Author's Note:**

> Long story short, my friend slash support coach threatened to whoop my ass Trevor style if I didn't post this. I can't complain since they've been one of the biggest helps to my life and I owe them alot.  
> A few spots of this have been edited to the best of my abilities as I no longer have someone around to edit them for me but hopefully, with this mess of a word corrector things should be okay. If not...I'll just crawl under Michael's couch and stay there forever. 
> 
> I apologize for anything missed in the correction process, also for the lack of sassy bitch Mike as I'm trying to capture another side to him, the one we see for five seconds in different cutscenes throughout the game but never really get to experience. 
> 
> Enjoy the fic, guys. Piece!

Tired eyes squint in their quest to trail the stream of greyish white light splitting the darkness as if it were a veil draped about the living room, it's soul purpose to the single occupant from the rest of the world, to force them to dwell further on the absence of a certain individual they have come to find themselves incapable of pining over. The third week has come and there remains no confirmation on his whereabouts, this man has gone completely off the radar and not even the master web hacker they share as mutual friends cannot find hide nor hair of him. This man has vanished, taken to the shadows and made himself no more than a ghost, a haunting reminder of their past and a dubiously mad figure set to cause rifts in the future, however, little of that they have left to experience together. Michael journey's through the striking off-white glare and doubles over, closes the laptop with a disgruntled snap and releases a meek sigh with which follows the soft hang of his head. Michael De Santa lacks the gull to strive off the miserable breeze penetrating the windows, being quickly enveloped by the chill of the new sombre morning. Everything is still. It frightens him, standing clad in a tattered, thin greenish red bathrobe that just fits across his broad shoulders and bears another's name that is etched loosely atop the patch of flannel stretched to form a pocket not meant to be there. Something inside Michael guides his fingers to the stitching, disappointment and boiling rage dancing as one to create a beastly love-child who aims to rip him to pieces if allowed to desert the cage. “How do you lose track of a fuckin' tornado?” saying the question out loud fails to quell the fear driven pests wrenching mockingly at the strings keeping his heart intact. This isn't like Trevor, to make himself scarce for such a time is out of the ordinary. Yes, he is acquainted to not hearing a peep out of the man for a day or two, four at the most, however, having come to know enough about Invade-Sta-Gram, Trevor has become fond of posting selfies on an account Jim has filled out for his uncle so outsiders will be jealous of the way he lives his eventful and interesting, occasionally vegan oriented lifestyle. Even if Michael doesn't speak with him, he can log onto his son's account and see the photos, be relieved to see his fri-no-his lover, is safe and well. Yet from the day he boarded his plane Trevor has made no effort to get in contact nor has he felt the urge to disturb his three hundred and fifty-nine followers with images of dead elk, sewer rivers or unconscious drag queens lying in a puddle of their own urine and spilled alcohol. The activity log, Michael flips his phone out to check, shows he has not been online or even opened the account in exactly three weeks and two days. The two days he spent assisting Trevor with packing a large duffel bag to bring on the trip. Everyone wears clean underwear, even if they're going to the dirtiest, scummiest areas of the globe. Michael scowls, whirling on bare heels he mimics a quarterback stance and hurls the cellphone at an angle, it flies, narrowly missing the ceiling, passed the way dividing the living room to his kitchen and clips the bottom of the cabinet, hitting the water of the filled messy sink, emanating a small plop. Hands snatch at unwashed his hair from the worry of imagining a dog without a tag, a lost mongrel roaming the streets of a far off country wounded and alone. He wants to scream, to storm to his car and pay Mr Crest a visit, interrogate the hacker regarding his lack of surveillance on Trevor, question his role and importance in their little 'group', do all it takes to kick-start him into whatever the fuck it is he needs to do to get eyes back on Michael's opaque hurricane. Stem the rushing throughout his veins and contaminating his blood, painting every inch of him, inside and out, in deep shades of pitch dread. “What if he's dead?” The thought has the man's feet stumbling, hands abandoning the greasy tufts of greying chocolate brown to snatch at the couch and keep Michael upright. He is dizzy, mind spinning at a pace that is creating nausea, desires to be sick momentarily clouding the visions flashing behind torment heavy eyes. He will fall over at the rate his body function is decreasing, the strength to remain on his feet is steadily leaving his body, it's very likely Michael will have to empty his stomach on the carpet as the distance to the closest bathroom or waste bin is beyond his reach. Three weeks. Three weeks of not knowing Trevor's location has him unravelling at the very seems. Is this what love is supposed to have you feel? Utter devastation and loneliness if that person is not by your side? Is this what he will have to suffer every time Trevor does not call? Or vanishes without a trace for weeks at a time? Having to wake up every morning and fear the worst? If so...is it worth it? Is constant mental torture worth his body self-destructing? Well, he's lived plenty of torture, strangely it has never gotten him feeling so vulnerable, even the moments in his life where Michael swore he was close to losing everything, nothing compares to that now, he could receive word his entire family went up in flames and, selfishly, it would not hit him as hard, as being without Trevor would hit him now. He admits it, he admits his family to being burdens, taking away his youth and the benefits of freedom, yet, somehow, freedom is the last thing he wishes for, now...he---the doorbell rings. Michael is caught off guard and chooses to ignore it, he assumes it is nobody worthy of his effort to travel to the front door, but the persistence of the caller and the rough, fist first knocks on the glass have Michael's heart knocking against his ribcage. Forcing back the sensation filling his throat, he carefully yet at a fair pace, waddles to into the hallway. The next amount of steps shortened as he hurries into a long stride, in four steps he is at the door, turning the key and pulling it open. The uneasiness setting alight the butterflies in his stomach refuses to dissipate. Behind the door, standing on his front patio is the man he's spent 21 days of his life fretting over, driving himself off the walls for, all because he didn't call or post a stupid selfie online. Trevor is clean, much to his disbelief. He has shaved away the grubby stubble and for once applied something other than cooking oil onto his face. He is wearing a red button down and form fitting suit pants, covering his feet are loafers, polished to a stunning shine. It is obvious to Michael his partner has made every effort to look well put together today. He almost considers this unreal, the sight of Trevor's neatly combed hair is reanimating the dizziness, encouraging Michael to lean against the doorframe. Neither of the men dare utter a word to each other, Michael is certain he is seconds away from fainting, whereas Trevor is surprised to see his friend looking disheveled when he makes every effort to appear anything but. “Ain't cha gonna welcome me home” His words are less than confident, but Trevor decides to ignore it and continue. “Fuck me, you look worse than I do” He fakes a chuckle, a smile pulling at his features. Sadly he doesn't receive one in return and drops it. “Where were you?” Is all Michael can say, doing his all to stay up.  
“Gathering intel on a potential business deal! Found somebody else to help make T.P.INC a global franchise!” “And you didn't think to call?” Sensing his partner's displeasure, Trevor's hand instinctively delves behind himself, slipping into his back pocket to retrieve what he'd gone away to fetch, the business venture being a guise to keep Lester and Michael off his trail. “Cellphone reception there was heavily monitored, the whole area quarantined by a corrupt government even more corrupt than the fuckin' F.I.B. Callin' would've had me put in jail. Or worse” He lets out a short burst of manic laughter, contorting his upper torso as he searches for that which he has been carrying on his person the entire way home. “Aww! Got cha, little shit” Trevor says triumphantly. “Hahah, can't hide from Uncle T, can yah!”  
In the air, he clutches a handwoven straw box, small enough to fit in the palm of his hand yet the way Trevor's fingers wrap around it show the importance of the object. He stops as if someone has pressed a button on the back of his skull and reset him. His expression changes, suddenly he moves the box to his chest and stares at it, consumed by what it is invading his thoughts. Slowly Trevor twists back to face Michael, his lips contorted to form a faint O.  
“Uhh, yeah, totally slipped what I was doing there for a sec” Nonchalantly he thrusts the box between them, observing the others face as Michael's shitty thought processing tries to make light of the situation. “What's up? Oh! Right. Forgot this was how you Vinewood silicone cliches do this” elegantly bending onto one knee, Trevor opens it and again, holds out the box containing a red diamond ring in front of Michael, who looks a mixture of confused and utterly horrified.  
“It's a uh-what you call 'um? Blood Diamond. Had to go real deep to get this baby. That's why my cell was out. The guy didn't want me blabbing on his operation. Said if I ever tried to tell anybody he'd turn me into a mannequin and feed my cock to his dogs. I've heard worse but, who gives a shit. He was four foot two as if he could even reach---Michael?” The blood leaves his face and a wave of heat and throbbing agony build a pressurised vice over his head, bending, the now forty-seven-year-old finally gives in and opens his mouth to vomit over the freshly planted shrubs. Trevor recoils to avoid getting any residue splatter on his clothes, pulling a dumbfounded expression as the discoloured contents get's harshly evicted from Michael's gut. A minute later he's gasping for air, craning his neck to look at Trevor. “I...I wasted...three fuckin' weeks. Worrying over you, thinkin' you were dead...because you thought it was a good idea to fly to some foreign hellhole and get me a blood diamond so you could propose...You're a fucking idiot” He is taken aback by the comment, rising off the patio step to confront him.  
“So I take it you don't want the ring-”  
“I never said that” Trevor's eyebrows are close to leaping off his forehead as Michael gestures for him to get back on one knee, recovering from the aftershock of both his motives and the bodily response to Trevor being away. “An you didn't let me finish! You're a fuckin' idiot....But...god....you're my fuckin' idiot” He rubs a hand over his eyes, puffing tiredly. “Screw it, just gimme the damn ring. Yes, I'll marry you” Grunting, Trevor lifts himself up again and plucks the ring from its box, he takes Michael's hand and slides the ring over the band of pale skin where his wedding ring formally sat. He gives his lover a little squeeze and leans in for a kiss which Michael blocks, using the other hand to cover his mouth. “Lemme brush my teeth first, Trev. You don't wanna mouth full of puke after just getting engaged”  
“I'd had a mouth full of your ass, Mikey. Ain't nothing gonna compare to that. Now give your new hubby some sugar”  
Feeling Trevor's mouth press against his, Mike hums happily, wrapping his arms around his partner's neck before squeaking to being swept off his feet, literally. Trevor carries him over the threshold of the condo and kicks the door closed, giving the two some privacy. 

“By the way, you owe me a new robe, fatty”  
“Bite me” 

The end.


End file.
